


a little dead in the middle

by proximally



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Nonbinary Frisk, POV Second Person, implied violence i guess?, tags will be added to when i post part 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6746872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proximally/pseuds/proximally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything in the Underground is beautiful and nothing hurts, yet you're starting to wonder if maybe it should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a little dead in the middle

**Author's Note:**

> title from the lyrics of [Squonk by Genesis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TzL-up4ZKgI).

There are voices. Muffled. Distant. Pressure on your stomach, the back of your legs, and your sense of gravity tells you your head is not oriented correctly. You can’t tell if your eyes are open or not; either way, it seems, it’s too dark to see.

Time passes, and the voices get louder. You still can’t hear what is being said, but you recognise the tone - an argument. A serious one, like those you used to hear reverberate through the walls. You’re jostled a little, and you realise you’re being carried - you hadn’t quite noticed before. Now that you think about it, one of the voices is a lot closer than the other - male, you’d guess, though maybe that’s presumptuous of you. Not everyone with a deep voice is a man.

The person, whoever they may be, stumbles, and you find rough fabric pressing into your cheek and the soft part of your nose. They right themself, surefooted again, but your nose is still bent awkwardly against the taut cloth and you really want to scratch it, move yourself into a more comfortable position, and that’s when you realise your arms are trapped quite thoroughly between the weight of your body and your porter’s shoulder and you couldn’t move them if you tried. You think about maybe kicking your legs, but they feel very heavy and something within you tells you that it’s not worth it, that you should pick your battles more carefully.

You’re more sure every moment that you’ve been kidnapped, and even more certain that nobody knows you’ve awoken. The element of surprise is yours, but you are only eleven and you will only have one shot at escape. These people probably have guns, too. Kidnappers in films always do, anyway, and you’d imagine some sort of armament would be a prerequisite - your father hires only the best security.

Gosh. You hope they’re okay. You know Monsieur Pierre was retiring at the end of the week - you and Annalise and Mathis were organising the party on Saturday. Oh dear, you hope nobody gets fired over this, either.

The voices raise in volume again, another shouting match, but this one ends with you dumped on the ground. Beneath your head now is hard stone, gravelly in places, and there’s one stone in particular that’s digging right into your stomach. Oddly, though you can feel the pressure, you don’t feel any pain. Perhaps mild discomfort at worst.

The kidnappers have quieted, and you’re starting to think maybe this was a test - maybe they _deliberately_ put you on this sharp rock, because if you’d been unconscious it would have woken you, and by not reacting you’ve given yourself away. Quick, there’s still time - you’re not totally sure why you want to play along when there’s no real advantage to it, but you’ve a split second to decide and so you kick out a leg in the general direction of the low voices.

It doesn’t go far - there’s canvas around your legs, too, looks like you’re in some sort of bag - but you hear an ear-piercing _scream,_ and there’s a panicked kick to your side, enough to roll you over, and over, and over, and oh god you’re not stopping, there’s nothing underneath you, you’re falling, falling, end over end, and you’re not sure if the scream is you or your kidnappers but it just keeps going, on and on and on, until--

\--it stops.

You stop.

There’s solid ground underneath you, softer than before. Relief fills you; it must not have been a long drop. Sure, it _felt_ long, but isn’t that what they say happens in situations like these - time slowing down? In any case, you don’t hurt anywhere, so your first priority should probably be getting out of this bag before you suffocate yourself - it’s fabric, sure, but you can’t just stay here, either. That would be dumb. You need to help plan that party, anyway - Annalise has terrible taste in cake, and you know Mathis won’t stand up to her over this, even if he _knows_ Pierre’s favourite is vanilla and not chocolate. You _need_ to be there.

The opening, you think, must be at your feet. That would be the logical way of doing it. You kick your leg out again, searching for a place that’s not just loose fabric, and - _voilà_ \- there it is. You push at it with both feet - it can only be a drawstring affair, let’s face it, nobody has a sack this big without a drawstring - and after a bit of effort, one socked foot makes it out. Further loosening allows you enough give to move your arms, and after that it’s child’s play - whoever said you couldn’t think your way out a paper bag and all that, huh? Well. Canvas sack. Same difference.

You take a moment to observe your surroundings.

You fell onto a patch of vibrant yellow flowers, which you feel very guilty about crushing but also rather thankful; they probably softened your fall. What you fell into, it seems, is a cavern. Crumbling pillars stretch toward an inky black ceiling you can’t even see, and a chill seeps into your bones because flowers or no flowers, you’re not sure you should’ve _survived_ that, let alone got out injury-free.

Maybe you’re in shock. Or have a concussion. Do those affect pain sensors? You’re not sure about that one, but, well, you still _feel_ just fine. There’s kind of a crick in your neck, and when you stretch it your right ankle feels a little tight, but other than that you can’t detect anything out of the ordinary.

Maybe it’s your imagination. Maybe the ceiling just _looks_ a long way away, like one of those weird optical illusions.

Carefully you drag the empty bag off the flowerbed; you’d rather not inconvenience these poor plants any more than you already have. In doing so you notice a thick branch - probably something else that had fallen down here, because certainly you don’t see any trees around. It looks quite sturdy, and comes up to about your chest when vertical: absolutely _perfect,_ because you’ve a feeling you shouldn’t put too much of your weight on that stiff ankle of yours.

Using it as a crutch, you deliberately limp your way towards an archway set into the cavern wall. This place was definitely inhabited once upon a time, though whether its current occupants are people or bears you suppose you’ll discover fairly soon.

 

 

Okay, now you’re at least ninety-nine percent sure you have some sort of head injury, because that’s a flower and it’s talking to you. It seems friendly enough, but equally you just crushed its brethren so you wouldn’t fault it for being angry about that. Trying to kill you, however, is in your opinion a step too far, and you’ve never been happier to be saved by a firebending anthropomorphic goat woman (a sentence that has probably never been spoken before, and will never be again).

She introduces herself as Toriel, Guardian of the Ruins, and noticing your limp she tells you to hold still, she can heal you. She places a paw on your ankle and closes her eyes; a muted glow leaks from between her fingers, and then she frowns. “I am sorry, my child, but my magic does not seem to be working? Perhaps...perhaps I am doing this wrong. I should refer to my texts. Please, let me carry you - I cannot have you aggravating your injury!”

You nod, and Toriel scoops you up into her arms. It feels very strange, to be held like this. Father has never picked you up like this; certainly not in your memory, anyway. Mother… Mother did sometimes. You’ve missed this. You feel very safe.

Toriel has to put you down in order to open her front door, but is quick to pick you up again. She takes you down a little hall studded with doors, the first of which she opens deftly with her foot, making you giggle. It’s a bedroom, complete with a dusty wardrobe, shelf, and box of toys. You wonder if she has children of her own, but then again she never mentioned any and the house seems quite empty besides you.

She sets you down on the bed and tells you that she needs to go grocery shopping, and perhaps get some advice on healing magic. She props your stick against the bedpost and informs you that the bathroom is just across the hall if you’d like to clean yourself up a little, but otherwise she advises you take a nap. You ask her if she has a shower, because you’re feeling uncomfortably gross, and though she’s reluctant to let you without supervision - what if you fall and hurt yourself, and she’s not here to help you? - she eventually relents, and compromises by giving you a mobile phone that you’re to keep within arm’s reach at all times.

After picking you out some clean clothes and giving you the run-down of the shower’s workings - plus asking your preference for cinnamon or butterscotch - she leaves, and you limp into the bathroom. It’s of a remarkable size, though you think that perhaps this is more because of Toriel’s own height than any desire to impress. You derobe quickly, and step into the shower, careful to place the phone away from the water but still in reach. The water is soothing as it washes away all the grime, but only until you look down and see all the red swirling at your feet.

Had you cut yourself somehow? No, surely not; no unnoticeable cut would have bled this much. You check yourself over anyhow, but while there’s plenty of bruises there’s not a single abrasion. Maybe you do have a head wound. Carefully you pat your head, and-- oh. There’s a spot where the hair seems matted, a lumpy sort of mess that can only realistically mean dried blood. There’s a little divot there, too, you think, but there’s no pain so you can only assume that Toriel had somehow healed the wrong thing.

Something occurs to you, so you pad wetly out of the shower and pick up the shirt you’d discarded. It’s dark blue in colour, and you suppose that’s why you hadn’t noticed - looking closer, there’s definitely a dark, stiff stain at the back of the neck. Gross. Can’t wear that again.

You step back into the shower, determined to be clean again. You’re not totally sure that _Furéal Shed Control_ is a shampoo that will do you that much good, but shampoo is shampoo and at this point you’re desperate.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re clean and dry and putting on the clothes Toriel provided for you. They’re a little big, and you’ll have to ask if she has a belt you can borrow, but they’re comfortable and not bloodstained, so you’re happy.

You decide to call and tell her you’re okay; she seems very relieved to hear your voice, and you can’t help but feel a little guilty for making her worry. As such, you don’t mention the head injury you discovered - you’re fine _now,_ which is what matters, and you don’t want to upset her unnecessarily. She tells you she might still be a little while, and that you should go have a nap before lunch. It’s been a long day (or night, perhaps? how can you tell?), so you agree and after saying goodbye, you crawl underneath the bedcovers. You’ll ask her how to get back to the Surface later.

 

 

You’re woken by the door opening and spilling light into the darkened room; footsteps, lighter and quieter than Father’s, pad across the carpeted floor, and sleepily you ask, “Maman?”

The small, almost choked gasp that ensues is what makes you open your eyes and realise that this is not your own bed, that you have not seen Maman since you were six, and you just mistook your generous host for your mother, and you think she might be crying.

You scramble to your feet, a litany of apologies on your tongue, but before you get a chance to say any of them Toriel has you wrapped up tight in a bear hug you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to.

Crying adults are not something you know how to deal with, so you just pat her back and awkwardly tell her it’s going to be okay, like how Raphaël did that one time when you realised properly that Maman wasn’t coming back. Toriel calms a lot quicker than you did, and soon it’s her apologising to you.

“Oh, my child, I am so sorry; I am but a silly old woman, and I forgot that I had given you those clothes. You...you looked so similar to one that I had once known.” She sighs and turns her head away, but you still catch her pained expression. You think about the box of dusty toys, and a lump forms in your throat. You resolve not to ask about the empty house anymore. It’s a question you’re not sure you want the answer to. “I hope...I hope that it is not too late for me to ask if you would like to come and have lunch with me,” she says, a small rueful smile appearing on her face. “I understand if you would rather eat in here.”

Lunch is delicious; Toriel is an excellent cook.

Afterwards, you work up the courage to ask her about the way out. She...doesn’t take it well. But you are determined. Your father has probably sent out search parties; you’re not sure how long you’ve been gone and there’s a worryingly blank spot in your memories, but surely somebody has noticed your absence by now. You don’t want to worry Toriel - especially not since she’s been nothing but kind to you - but you don’t want to worry anyone else, either.

You have to get home. Doesn’t she understand that? _You’ll die,_ she tells you, and you’re reminded again of the dusty toys and the box of shoes. You’re not the first to come through here. But - this you decide - you are determined not to meet the same fate.

**Author's Note:**

> listen it was Furéal or Furbal Essences ok, _you_ tell me what the better pun was  
>     
> this is not a proper multichaptered story bc i don't have the stamina for that, but there IS at least a second part to this, in which many questions will be answered and many things stated outright rather than merely implied and left up to interpretation. the #1 reason i'm not posting them together is because my french oral worth 20% of my entire french a-level is literally tomorrow and i spent like 4 hours on this bit alone, because wtf are priorities. if all goes well i'll post pt2 this weekend and you'll find out exactly what kind of AU this is, lol.  
>    
> also: vague headcanon that mt ebott is in france & more specifically in the massif centrale, bc there's a metric fliptonne of extinct volcanoes and i wanted an excuse to use french everywhere


End file.
